


Soon

by orphan_account



Series: See You Tomorrow [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Deaf Clint Barton, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 22:50:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11724225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Injuries and domesticity.





	Soon

Clint moved like a ghost over the threshold, into the apartment, and when his eyes found Bucky’s he looked quickly away, feeling the hot rise in his cheeks of another frustrated fluster.

"How's the shoulder?" Bucky asked gently.

"Not good." Clint rubbed at the side of his face. "Like, surgery levels of not good. The tendon here isn't healing right." He used his thumb and his middle finger to trace the path of said tendon. "And they don't know if they can fix it; told me the odds would've been better if I'd come in right when it happened."

"Aw, fuck, Clint."

"Either way, I'm gonna have limited range of motion. And I'm looking at a year of PT; maybe longer, depending."

"That incompetent fucking medic-"

"It's not his fault. I should've double checked. I should've gone to medical right away for a second opinion. Jesus. It was a goddamn bullet wound, I should've gone to the fucking ER." He reigned in his rising emotions just enough to get his jacket off carefully, paying attention to his aching shoulder. The shoulder he needed an operation on. “I'm never gonna hold a goddamn bow ever again.”

Bucky went across the living room to him, taking Clint in his arms and holding him close while he wept. “Of course you're gonna hold a bow again.”

“I should've gone in sooner. I should've... I should've... Fucking hell.”  
"It’s not your fault.”

Clint cried and shook and held onto Bucky all the while. It had been weeks since he’d taken a bullet through the shoulder, and when the occasional twinge became the occasional ache became the constant dull pain that crackled like sparklers at any sudden movement, Clint went to medical and left with the directive to take it easy and schedule the surgery ASAP.

“Why don't you go lay down for a bit?” Bucky murmured. “I'll get dinner started."

Clint eased away from him, wiping his nose on his shirt sleeve. He gave a jerky nod and moved slowly down the hall and into his bedroom.

He toed off his shoes and sat down on the edge of the unmade bed, every Worst Possible Outcome swishing vividly across his mind’s eye.

 

He woke up with a headache from having cried for so long. The sky was blue and gray outside the window, and a gentle rain was tapping at the glass. Feeling groggy and miserable, he got up and went into the living room.

Bucky was standing in the kitchen, leaning on one hip in front of the stove and stirring at a pan. Clint rested his good shoulder on the door frame and watched him: the pale, innocent nape of his neck; the broad expanse of his shoulders, tapering down to his lean, shapely waist; the ample, rounded muscle of his _fantastic_ ass; his powerful legs. Clint’s t-shirt looked good on him; something about the intimacy of the gesture hit him square in the solar plexus.

“You done leering?” Bucky said without turning around.

Clint smiled an exhausted little smirk. “Smells great,” he said, moving across the apartment to stand behind him.

He took Bucky by the biceps and nosed at the side of his neck. "I oughta get fitted for one of these," he joked halfheartedly, smoothing his hand down Bucky’s metal arm.

Bucky sighed through his nostrils. "It won't be that bad. You've had worse."

"Nothing like this," Clint murmured. He dropped his forehead to Bucky’s shoulder. "I can't shoot for a year. I can't train. I-I can't - oh, fuck."

"Clint." Bucky turned in his arms to look at him. He took Clint's face in his hands. "It's gonna be okay. You'll do the PT. Your body will heal. It's not gonna be fun or easy, but the best things never are, right? Hey.” He gave Clint a small smile. “Wouldn’t it be way less stressful to stop sulking about it, and at least pretend to believe me?”

Clint rolled his eyes, sliding his arms around Bucky’s neck. “I’m allowed to sulk.”

“You are,” Bucky agreed, gently wiping Clint’s tears away. He curled his hands around Clint’s waist, fingers pressing into his skin, grounding and possessive.

Clint raked his nails through the short hairs at the apex of Bucky’s neck, revelling in the fine shiver rippling its way through Bucky’s body. When Bucky pressed his mouth to Clint's, it was soft and lingering and the kind of kiss that left Clint completely unstrung.

"I'd give you anything,” he whispered, chasing Bucky’s mouth for more of that dizzying contact.

"Start by eating an actual meal. Oreos aren't real food."

"They're vegan."

"You have a problem." He looked pointedly over Clint's shoulder at the stack of empty cookie boxes, leaning dejectedly up against the kitchen trash can.

“One of my many endearing quirks,” Clint said drolly.

“Go be endearing at the table. I'll bring you a plate.”

 

Bucky sat down across from him and curled his socked feet around Clint's under the table. They ate for a while in companionable silence, Clint going at his portion like a man starved, pausing only between bites to take a swig of the beer Bucky had set down before him.

Bucky poked at his own food here and there; a mood seemed to have settled over him. Like a woman with child, he was living suddenly within himself, deeply contemplative in a place where Clint couldn't join him.

It was happening more often these days. It used to be something of the past, something that would happen to Bucky every now and then, when it was raining outside or when the sky would be gray and thick with clouds. He’d close in on himself like a moth folding its wings around its vulnerable insides. Gray and secretive. Decades away.

"You staying over tonight?" Clint asked him, noticing this sudden disappearance; his voice was rough from crying, but he didn’t bother with being embarrassed about it. He rubbed the side of his foot, catlike, up against Bucky’s leg.

Those eyes Clint loved to look into were wet and alive again, their attention turning to Clint, and then down to the untouched plate. "Clint, I have to leave for a while."

“Okay.” Clint put down his fork and picked up his beer. “How long is a while?”

Bucky looked almost helpless when his gaze went to the window. “I don’t know,” he said. He leaned back in the chair and put both hands in his short hair. "There are still so many things... so many questions I have about what happened to me.” He looked into Clint’s face again. “The timing could be better, but I’ve... I’ve been putting it off for a long time. I can’t do that anymore.”

“I understand.” Clint’s reply was clipped and came too quickly. He downed the last of his beer and then pushed away from the table. He took both of their plates into the kitchen. “I’m exhausted,” he said. “I'm gonna shower and go to bed. You can stay over, if you want.”

 

Bucky watched him disappear again into the hallway. Clint had this way of walking sometimes like he was floating over the floor, emptied out of all the parts Bucky loved and drifting to nowhere in particular.

He sat alone at the table and listened for the sound of the showerhead running, the delicate slosh of the water as Clint’s body went underneath it.

For all of Bucky’s training, Clint was sometimes so difficult to read. He put his teeth in his lower lip and wondered whether Clint would care for his company. It was worth the rejection, Bucky decided, pushing away from the table and walking hesitantly into the hallway.

The bedroom was dimly lit by the adjoining bathroom’s cracked open door. Clint’s clothes were on the carpet.

He opened the door fully and went inside, closing it behind him because something inside of him warmed at the idea being secreted away from the world. It was how he felt when Clint would put his arms around him under the bed covers and they would speak together in whispered, conspiratorial tones.

_Can I join you?_ Bucky wanted to say. But Clint’s hearing aids were on the counter by the sink; Bucky’s voice would be drowned out completely by the sound of the shower.

He went dejectedly back into the bedroom, closing the bathroom door behind him, and sat down on the unmade bed. On one of the two bedside tables: Clint’s cell phone, charging; a glittery purple, bite-shaped receptacle for Clint’s night guard. On the other: Bucky’s charger, coiled around itself; Neil Gaiman’s _American Gods_ , bookmarked to where Bucky had left off the night before; a loaded handgun.

His things in Clint’s space, their belongings all intermingled, never became less amazing. Bucky had a drawer here, and a toothbrush, and a key to the front door.

He would stay, he decided, until after the surgery. And then he absolutely had to go.

The water slowed to a stop behind the bathroom door. Clint came into the bedroom, scrubbing his hair dry, and Bucky was reminded of a very similar scene not too long ago: the two of them together in that shoebox hotel room.

Sufficiently dry, Clint picked up a pair of sleep pants off the floor and put them on before going back into the bathroom. He emerged again shortly in the process of putting his hearing aids on.

“I was thinking,” Bucky said, “I’ll leave after the surgery.”

Clint looked at him for a while, arms crossed over his bare chest, head tilted to the side in that contemplative way of his. He walked over to where Bucky was seated and stood between his open legs. His arms unfolded and his hands went into Bucky’s hair.

“It’s gonna be sometime next week,” Clint said.

“Then I’ll stay until next week.”

 

To have had him only in fantasy, and then to have him back again.

“I feel like I’ve loved you for a thousand years.”

“Sap.”


End file.
